Two Sides of a Vaguely Similar Coin
by ZombiBird
Summary: Deviancy is hard, harder than RK900 expected it to be. In a misguided attempt to make it easier, he accepts a position at the DPD with the condition that Gavin Reed be his partner. Things snowball from there. [Despite the listed pairing, this is a Reed900 fic. I decided to tag it as Reed/Connor since there's typically a crossover between readers of the two ships]
1. Deviancy is a Learning Curve

\- Friday February 28th, 2039 –

RK900, for lack of a better expression, is lost.

It was never a feeling that he thought he would ever experience, metaphorical or otherwise, given his built-in geographical data and adaptive problem-solving subroutines, but, as he's been informed, _things change._

 _Things_ being his sole purpose for existing and _change_ being the complete nullification thereof.

He is now going through what the humans would refer to as…

 **[Search Complete]**

 **EXISTENTIAL CRISIS**

 **a moment at which an individual questions if their life has meaning, purpose, or value**

…yes, that sounds about right.

It is a difficult acclimation to say the least.

RK800 – Connor, he must remember to call him – assures him that these… _emotions_ are normal for androids transitioning into deviancy to experience, but RK900's own findings rather contradict his predecessor's attempt at comforting words.

What it comes down to, RK900 has hypothesized, is base programming.

According to RK900's searches, over seventy-five percent of the emancipated android populous has pursued a line of work similar to, or exactly in line with, their originally intended functions. Domestic androids have come together to form housekeeping businesses, child-care androids to daycare and nanny services, construction and maintenance androids to professions in the architectural and janitorial fields.

Most, if not all, emancipated androids are still following their basest programming from day to day, giving very little reason for internal conflict or confusion. Given the RK line's intended purposes in the context of this new world-state of widely accepted deviancy, the same cannot be said for RK900.

He's been offered a position with the DPD, yes, but he is… he is conflicted.

RK900 looks up from the Saint Bernard sprawled over his and his predecessor's laps, "I do not believe this is helping." If anything, the addition of the giant drool-beast has caused his thoughts to spiral further towards the issue at hand, if only to keep them from the puddle of saliva slowly soaking through his pant leg.

Connor tilts his head and blinks, "Really?" The admission seems to cause his counterpart confusion as he looks down to the animal with furrowed brows, "I've always found Sumo's presence quite comforting."

RK900 feels a frown tugging at his lips as he eyes the wrinkles forming in his slacks under the animal's weight, "I… I do not think I like dogs." It's something that concerns him, actually; his blatantly not taking joy in any of the things that his predecessor has shown an express interest in.

The way Connor has explained it to him, deviancy is like waking up; taking an interest in the world around you that was perhaps not there before- a curiosity and awareness that comes with preferences, ambitions, and the ability to choose what paths one would and would not like to pursue.

To RK900, deviancy is uncertainty and confusion, isolation in a feeling of otherness that's built a wall between him and his fellow androids. Emotions are detached and vague at best, spanning only so far as general likes and dislikes followed by an ever growing need to get to the bottom of what's _wrong_ with him that has him feeling so… so purposeless and out of place.

Connor squints at him for a moment, lips pursed and downturned; an expression that RK900 himself cannot imagine himself ever wearing, "Have you given any thought to Captain Fowler's offer?"

To become an acting member of the Detroit Police Department, effective immediately. Yes, he's run it through his neural processor dozens of times since he received the call. It's one of the primary reasons that he wished to confer with Connor tonight.

Feeling an urge to occupy his hands, RK900 cords his fingers through the Saint Bernard's fur as he asks, "Would you say working with such an… _emotionally vibrant_ partner as Lieutenant Anderson influenced your own ability to emote?"

The RK800 model thinks the question over thoroughly, phrasing his answer carefully when he finally responds, "Though I'm sure Lieutenant Anderson was not solely responsible for my deviancy… Yes, I believe I can say with relative confidence that spending time with him accelerated the process."

Perhaps… perhaps that's what sets RK900 apart from the rest of his kind. Not things so base as programming but mere _exposure_ to the human psyche – specifically how little of it he's had in comparison to the rest of them.

From the standpoint of human psychology, one can only spend so much time in the company of another before they begin to subconsciously emulate mannerisms and emotional tendencies, including, but not limited to likes, dislikes, opinions and ways of thinking and behaving. Perhaps deviancy is not a mutation of code, but, rather, another level of adaptive programming- free will and emotional responses originally derived from adapting to humans and their own strong ideals of individuality.

It's a weakly founded hypothesis, yes, but one that RK900 would not mind investigating further.

"Then I think I will accept Captain Fowler's offer-" Connor smiles, but before he can open his mouth to respond, RK900 adds, "-On one condition."

The RK800 tilts his head, questioning.

"I would wish to be partnered with the 'Detective Reed' I've heard so much about."

From the kitchen, Lieutenant Anderson chokes on his beer.


	2. From Slightly Bad to the Actual Worst

Gavin had a pretty good idea of how his day was going to be going within seconds of waking up to the unmistakable sensation of his cat's teeth around his nose. As his morning progressed passed one broken coffee maker, a hairball in his shoe, and a razor blade too dull to properly shave with, Gavin had come to grips with the fact that, yes, this was going to be one of _those_ days.

You know, the one's where the universe just goes out of its way to make life as hard as possible.

 _Tch. Aren't they all?_ He thinks bitterly around his third stick of nicotine gum as he pulls into the parking lot of the DPD.

Getting out of his truck, Gavin almost takes a spill on a slick of ice on the pavement – only damn slick in the parking lot, like it was left there just for him and his shitty, shitty luck to step on – and puts a bend in the driver-side rearview when he grabs it to catch himself.

He wishes he could say that's where his morning of misery ended.

Walking through the DPD, Gavin can just _feel_ the shit collecting in the air in preparation for a downpour. The usually transparent walls of Fowler's office are blacked out, which is never a good sign, and Anderson is giving him a look stuck somewhere between amusement and concern. Eyes avert his all the way to his desk – even Chen, who'd usually go out of her way to mess with him first thing, was conspicuously absent, fussing with her phone in the break room with a laser focus that was usually reserved for chatting up the brunette that worked reception.

Conclusion: something fucking _fishy_ was going on, and judging from the apprehensive stares that have not-so-subtly following Gavin from the moment he stepped into the station, he's got a sinking suspicion that he isn't going to like it.

"Hey, man…" Chris Miller dawdles over awkwardly as Gavin is tossing his jacket down over the back of his chair, "Fowler's been waiting on you in his office, I, uh…" The man looks towards the Captain's office, hand coming up to rub at the side of his neck, "I wouldn't keep him any longer.

It's nothing particularly unusually for Gavin to be called in to talk to Fowler, but on a normal day the windows aren't blacked out and Anderson's little plastic pet isn't eyeing him like he's done it a personal injustice. Gavin squints at him, his mouth pressing into a thin line, "You know what it's about?" He asks slowly.

Chris – decent cop, horrible liar – shuffles in place where he stands as the hand against his neck begins to knead more forcefully, "Nah- I mean, maybe it's about the Manfred kid you busted last week or something?"

Gavin doesn't need a mirror to know his face construes anything but belief, but he nods slowly, eyes darting over to the blacked-out glass, " _Sure…_ I'll head right in." Chris bobs his head in a nod before scuttling off and leaving Gavin to stare at his retreating form in what he's sure is _intense suspicion_.

-Because seriously, what the fuck was that about?

With a sigh, Gavin abandons his desk to pace towards the Captain's office, a tension in his shoulders and a nagging feeling of unease at whatever conspiracy has suddenly overtaken the entire damn station. He frowns and scoffs under his breath as he climbs the steps, opens the door, and steps inside.

"Well, well, well, look who finally decided to show up." Fowler's unenthused greeting is lost on Gavin as his eyes land on the other figure occupying the room.

-Cold, ice-grey eyes dig into him, pinning him where he stands as he finds Connor (except it can't be Connor because Connor was outside perched on the corner of Anderson's desk) staring him down from its place in the center of the room.

"You're twenty-eight minutes late, Detective." Not-Connor says, tilting its head with an expression that wouldn't have been out of place on a parent that had just busted their kid for breaking curfew, "Was there traffic?"


End file.
